


TLC

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4135338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin’s a lost puppy until Balin pets him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	TLC

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “all Balin/Dwalin fics i've seen were from Balin's POV, need one from Dwalin's” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=21774315#t21774315).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It isn’t exactly that it _hurts_ anymore—Óin rubbed an array of herbs below the bandages, and Dwalin’s always had a high tolerance for pain—but the humiliation of it stings. He and Dori rarely fight with practice weapons; they’re the strongest competitors and are more than skilled enough (usually) to best one another unscathed.

But today, Dwalin made a fatal mistake—lunged at the wrong angle by a full quarter of a circle—and only Dori’s quick reflexes stopped his blade from splitting Dwalin open. Instead, it carved up his arm, and now he’s wrapped in white from wrist to bicep, a trail of red blood still soaking through near the top. 

He’ll live. He’ll do better than live—he’ll heal and thrive. (And fight again.) But it was enough to send him out of the training pits for the day, and he’s wandered back to where he always does when he’s hurt. He finds Balin in the library, still covered in dust from all of Smaug’s disuse, and he broods in the back while his beloved partner flitters about the ancient, deteriorating volumes.

He doesn’t say what he wants. He wants Balin to come kiss him, hold him around his middle, stroke his beard and tell him he’s still _fierce_. A true warrior. The cut doesn’t diminish him. When Dwalin was too young to hold a hammer, he’d run to his big brother with tears in his eyes and beg to be held. When they grew and first started to explore _more_ of their strange connection, he’d come silently to his big brother’s side and slip his hand into Balin’s waiting palm. Now he’s old and jaded and he just waits in silence, expecting his big brother to instinctively _know_ and come to him. He’s crumbled enough today. 

Balin hums to himself while he works. He’s sorting through the mess of cobwebs and upended scrolls, as he’s been doing for days, his pure-white hair standing out like snow against the darkness. He’s as hardened a warrior as Dwalin, but times like this, he looks so _soft_ , with his round middle wrapped in plush robes and his eyes twinkling with the light of discovery. He was always handsome, but the years have withered him into a different kind of beauty. Dwalin loves him no less now than when they were new and fresh and Balin had muscles tough as stone. 

Finally, Dwalin gives in to a grunt. It works; Balin glances up at him over a brown-grey desk, offering a warm smile. Balin says, “Just a moment,” and Dwalin’s frown deepens. He doesn’t want to wait. The more he watches Balin, the more he wants Balin _now_ ; he wants to rub that big nose against his own and feel Balin’s wispy hair between his fingers. If his arm weren’t injured, he’d probably storm across the room and throw Dwalin up against one of the bookshelves, take _pleasure_ instead of comfort. One way or another, Balin always makes him feel good. _“That’s what big brothers do,”_ Balin sometimes says, in the dead of night when they’re between sheets, cuddling like squirming children. They’re more than that. Balin’s love is more than protection, than duty. It has been for many, many years. 

Then Dwalin gives in. He moves from the corner to the stacks, weaving between piled books on the floor to reach his brother’s side. Balin continues to work, and Dwalin follows him about without a word, silently keening for attention. Eventually, Balin sighs. Either the hovering is bothering him, or the bandages have flared his sympathy. 

He turns to open his arms, slipping them around Dwalin’s middle. Even as he draws in for a tight, powerful hug, he chuckles, “I can’t fix anything that Óin can’t.”

“You fix everything,” Dwalin mutters, gruff but sincere. He wraps his good arm Balin’s back, the other still limp at his side. He means what he says. Balin has gotten him through every challenge he’s ever faced. There’s no support system greater. Even little things like this, he likes to touch on that rope and feel it holding him up. Balin presses a lingering kiss to his cheek that leaves him feeling light and lovely. 

But Balin pulls away too soon, grinning fondly and still holding Dwalin’s sides. He promises, “Just let me finish organizing these scrolls, then we can go back to our room and snuggle.” Off anyone else’s tongue, Dwalin would deny that he _snuggles_. Not with Balin. With Balin, he ducks his head to capture Balin’s lips, marking his agreement with a treat for the wait. 

When they part, he growls against Balin’s open mouth, “Or I could take you right here, over your desk.” Balin’s grin grows, and he runs his palms hungrily over Dwalin’s chest. 

Still, he says, “Not with an injured arm.” He kisses Dwalin again, quick and chaste but still invigorating. 

Then he bustles out of Dwalin’s arms, and Dwalin follows, never far from his brother’s side.


End file.
